


Unliving Sparks

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Amputation, Body Horror, M/M, OCs - Freeform, Undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Springer recovers from his Zero Point, returning to life only to have to face the undead: in the form of his mentor.  He’s saved him before, but not from anything like this.<br/>for robot-big-bang</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unliving Sparks

Roadbuster took the call. He took all the calls to Debris, carefully methodical, a communicube in a bracket over his worktable. Since Whirl had gone it had gotten quiet. He'd say 'too quiet' but even he knew that was a cliche. Besides. He didn’t mind the quiet. 

Most of the calls were just check ins, seeing if the small outpost needed anything. They'd stopped asking for progress years ago, having given up on Springer as dead, Roadbuster as a sentimental fool, a loyal dog who couldn't bear to leave his master's side.

The loyal part was true, and possibly even the fool. But they were wrong to give up. And so he didn't say anything when Springer's optics flickered on, when the hand first moved, rust-stiff. He hadn’t lied, told anyone who asked, but by then, most had given up asking.

Any Wrecker would understand that. You don't volunteer for anything. Once you're a Wrecker, that's the end of that volunteer nonsense. 

And it felt good, in a petty way, to have something like a secret. The good kind of secret, at any rate, the sort that stretches at your spark, makes you feel trusted and good inside. He'd had enough bad secrets and this one--that Springer was awake, Springer was recovering--blasted away a lot of that darkness. 

But this call wasn't a scheduled check-in, and it wasn't the odd returning mech who hadn’t heard and wanted to visit Springer's body like it was some shrine. He turned those away, for the obvious reason. He didn't like the idea, anyway, of Springer becoming a place, a tragedy. That wasn't the Springer he knew, the one who had finally groaned, sitting up, and asking as his first words about the others.

Roadbuster had tried to be gentle about that, but he wasn't a gentle mech. Still, how do you tell your leader that most of his Wreckers, friends and soldiers, are dead? How do you tell him the war's finally over and guess what? Nobody won? 

He did his best, and Springer knew it, and gave him a friendly swat on the shoulder for it, even as his optics shadowed at the news. 

And Roadbuster had tried, since then, to shield Springer from the rest of the news. But this one, as much as he hated it, as much as the very thought of it burned in his cortex like some acid, he couldn't. He had to tell Springer, he had to at least make it Springer's decision.

So here he was, lingering after handing over the evening ration, lumpishly. 

Springer picked up on it, fast. Too fast, really. "What's up?" A casual-sounding inquiry, but one that said he knew that something, indeed, was up. Very up.

"Got....a call." 

Springer waited. He wasn't a patient mech by nature, but he'd learned it in the Wreckers, ever more patient with his troops, just as ever more impatient with High Command. And he knew Roadbuster would bring the words in time. Loyal dog that he was. Sentimental fool that he was.

"It's, well...it's Kup."

"Kup." He tasted the name, feeling the memories. "Thought you said he was on Earth with the others."

"He was. And then, well...something happened." He wasn't trying to be deceitful or evasive: he'd read the reports, labored over them, but they made no sense. He'd even looked up all the words. 

"And."

"And he's back now and, well, dangerous." The report, the plea for help, had angered him as much as upset him. How dare they ask for Springer, of all mechs? For Kup? 

"Dangerous.”

“Yeah.” Roadbuster scrubbed a hand behind his helm. “There was some sort of, I don’t know, like, dimensional incident and Kup. And after, you know, his exposure to the weird crystals, well...he’s not himself.”

“Kup is Kup,” Springer said, adamant. He laid aside the datapad he’d been idly poking at. He was bored and restless, and Roadbuster hated to think what that meant, especially ith this news. “And they wanted me.”

Roadbuster gave a miserable nod. “It’s not fair,” he protested, weakly.

Springer tilted his head back, those piercing blue optics bright and sharp. “Wreckers. Since when has life ever been fair for us?”

And like that, it was settled, as Roadbuster had known it would, as much as he didn’t want it to. There was nothing to do, after that, but everything: all the bustle and business of prepping the shuttle for take-off, running himself through a piloting refresher course, shutting the base down to nominal systems. 

Springer seemed to glow with the work, and Roadbuster realized how the triple changer had ached for something to do, some purpose, something to occupy mind and hands and spark. And the huge mech felt a certain selfish kind of regret as he cycled the airlock shut for the final time, closing the Debris base behind him. He could feel the base’s systems cycling down, like a breath on a long, last exhale. He had been happy here, he realized, and it struck him that that’s maybe how it always is: you don’t realize your happiness until you’re on the first step away from it.

[***]

Gorlam Prime. Roadbuster had read up on it, in his slow, laborious way, every report he could find: the Dead Universe, Jhiaxus, all of it. it made a kind of sense that Kup would reappear here, returned from the dead to this place of death.

Roadbuster had seen his share of battlefields. He’d never seen anything like Gorlam Prime: a charnel house, bodies of the indigenous dead strewn around like toys flung by tantrum. The air reeked of organic decay and rust and a scent a Wrecker knew: that of stale fear, the musty terror of those who were dying, horribly, helplessly. 

He swung the large gun in an arc, moving into the standard half-crouch of urban combat, moving in a slow-motion glide down the street. He could feel Springer behind him, taut and alive, clearing the other half of their path. It did, he hated to admit it, feel good to be doing something again, good to be doing something he knew he was good at. And he couldn’t think of someone he’d rather be doing it with than Springer.

“Mark’s ahead,” Springer said, his voice soft but confident, back in control. 

Roadbuster nodded. The group that had initiated the contact was allegedly up ahead, but he couldn’t see any sign of them. Yet. It didn’t mean much, except tha if they were hiding (or dead) the situation was a bit more serious than he’d hoped. 

He thought he’d given upon hope.

Then again, they’d contacted a dead mech on a rumor and a hope. If that wasn’t a desperation born of fear, he didn’t know one.

“See anything?” Roadbuster stopped, his internal positioner pinging that he was right on the beacon mark. 

A sudden sharp cry, and a burst of fire from behind him. Roadbuster whirled, in time to see the answering round hit the target--center mass on an approaching mech. He staggered back, the mech, Springer’s round punching a hole through his chassis. They both waited for him to fall, figuring it was just a cache flush before its death registered to the mech. 

It didn’t fall. Its mouth opened and it made some horrible gear-grating whirring screech, and began, slowly, moving forward again. The weapon seemed forgotten in its hand, the muzzle bobbling as he walked.

Springer cursed. “Hit it!” He sounded frustrated. It had been megacycles since he’d held a gun, after all. Maybe he’d thought he’d lost his touch or something.

Roadbuster grunted acknowledgement. “Hit it again.”

A flicker of a smile from around the edge of the helm. “Don’t have to tell me twice.” The rifle spat again, another round, this time through the shoulder.

It kept coming. It was impossible, but Roadbuster was seeing it with his own optics. Right. Well, his turn. He swung his gun to bear, giving Springer just enough time to duck, cutting his audio to protect it from the blast, before it discharged, a cannon’s worth of energy blasting at the shambling mech. 

When the chest didn’t work, aim for the head. Wreckers didn’t do wounding shots, only kills.

It exploded, a bright fountain of color and fluid, and the thing finally fell, fluids from its head catching fire, feeding flames of orange and purple. 

“The frag,” Springer breathed, taking a step closer, to investigate, Roadbuster moving to cover his six.

“Both rounds hit,” Springer said, nudging the thing with his foot. “Thought maybe I was out of practice.”

Roadbuster glanced down, shook his head. “Saw ‘em both hit.” 

“Should’ve taken it out.” The helm tipped down, hiding a frown. “Something’s not right here.”

“Maybe it’s not you,” Roadbuster said, taking a quick glance around before dropping to one heavy knee beside Springer. The first shot had been straight on, clean and direct, absolute perpendicular. A kill shot, severing the line between spark chamber and transformation cog. “Hey. Look at this?”

Springer had taken up observation, backpedaling to come back to Roadbuster’s bulk. “What?”

“This.” Roadbuster scraped up a bit of twisted metal, what had been the mech’s lower jaw. Hey, he got a lot of dirty jobs in the Wreckers and cadaver cleanup was an education unto itself. “Jaw strut’s rusted nearly through.” 

“Huh.” Springer considered. “Means some kinda disease. No medic to treat it.”

“Yeah. And.” Roadbuster stood up, letting the jaw drop from his fingers, where it thudded against the ground. “How the frag he eat?” Needed mouths to eat. Even mechs with empurata had throat ports. But there was nothing here, except metal bubbled with corrosion. Rust this bad didn’t happen overnight. 

A flash of color, a small flare off to the left, before Roadbuster could come up with an explanation. They both saw it at the same time, reaching back with their free hand’s elbow to bump the other for attention. 

“Got it,” Springer said, raising his gun from mid mass, heading over to the flare. Roadbuster hesitated--it could be a trap. But Springer was going ahead, so he had no choice but to hustle after.

The flare winked again, down the street, before diving around a corner. Roadbuster felt a twitch in his belly. Not a bad feeling, really, as much as a discomfort. “Could be a trap,” he murmured.

“Could be,” Springer agreed. “But we need some clue what we’re facing and sometimes, that means we gotta hunt the clue down ourselves.”

Fair enough. Roadbuster hustled after him, sweeping around the opposite corner for a klik. Because, you know, alleys. Good fatal funnels, especially if you could get a back angle on the target. But this was almost too obvious for a trap: shattered windows, glass hanging like jagged teeth in slack mouths, once-bright walls pitted and marred with smoke and dust. It smelled bad, and first Roadbuster thought it was just the reek of the rusty jaw he’d handled sticking in his olfactory sensor. But it didn’t fade, it grew stronger, more sour, and his optics flicked to what he thought was a pile of trash against the alley wall. 

It wasn’t trash, it was the corroded remains of a mech, jaw still stretched like a silent scream, the optic sockets empty and staring, the rest of the body clotted together as though some acid had half-melted the metal. ...the frag?

Worse, he couldn’t help the feeling, almost a hard twitch between his shoulder blades, that old instinct of being followed. Something was on his six, moving to close. And they were in an alley without an exit. “...Springer?”

He knew Springer felt it, too, the old instincts kicking online, by the way he set his helm, head down, wary. 

“In. Quick.” A flash of a battered hand, and the glint of the light they’d been tracking, from a basement hatch, beckoning them down. Springer dropped lightly down the steps. Roadbuster more slowly, his massy armor scraping at the concrete sides, the steps too narrow for his feet. He ducked his head, helm still bumping the ceiling, as the beckoning mech squeezed past him to shut the door.

“Stealthy operation you got here,” Springer said, dryly.

“It’s secure, at least.” 

Roadbuster didn’t have patience for all this ‘how do you do’ small talk. “The frag was that thing out there?” Either of them. Any clue would be nice.

“One of them. We call ‘em ‘eaters’,” a voice said, from the shadows. One optic frame had been damaged, a crack like jagged lightning down the blue lens. “Why we called you here.” 

“You could be a little more clear,” Springer said. He stepped forward, moving to squat on a supply crate. “Told us to come in expecting hostiles.” 

The mech had been hostile enough to Roadbuster, but he could see Springer’s point. Especially if their nickname was ‘eaters’. There was kind of a considerable difference between an enemy that wants to kill you and one that wants to eat you. Subtle, but important.

“That was as, uh, as much as we wanted to say on a ‘jackable channel,” said the mech behind them, the one who had closed the hatch. “Gonna have to be quiet for a bit: noise always draws a crowd.”

“Quiet?” Roadbuster really hated mystery and obfus...obfuscation. That was the word. “Listen, you.” He lurched closer, a finger out to jab the split-opticked mech in the chassis.

“No,” the other mech said, raising a hand, to point up. “You listen.” 

They did: he could hear sounds from above. Scraping, shuffling. At first just a little, like a trickle of water. But more, lots more. Hundreds, Roadbuster figured, footsteps shuffling around the area, that strange grinding shriek of metal from dozens of mouths. The corroded stench, rust and rancid oil and something far, far worse, almost churning his tanks, seemed to clog the air. They moved in a random pattern, as though searching for something, not finding it, and going over the area again, purposeful but aimless. 

“The frag...,” Springer whispered, blue optics aimed upward, trying to track the path of dozens of shuffling

steps. 

The mech in the corner, split-optic, raised a hand, and Springer subsided. And they waited, not daring to move. Roadbuster didn’t even move to sit down, in case the squeak of an unoiled joint would give them away. It seemed like ages, and the air in the cellar grew thick and rank, the lightcell seeming too weak to penetrate it. Faces looked like masks, tight and tense, each locked in their own minds. The anxiety was contagious--whatever was out there was big, hard to kill, and scared the scrap out of these two. 

Finally, finally, it passed. Springer and Roadbuster waited, even after the shuffling had gone quiet, waiting for a signal. Only stupid warriors didn’t take clues from those who knew the battlefield better. 

Split-optic spoke, his voice still quiet, straining to be soft. “They’re not good at looking above or below optic level. But if they had a clue, the sheer weight of them would crush through the hatch.” 

Springer nodded, filing that away. “What’s all this got to do with Kup?”

Roadbuster wished he hadn’t have asked that question. Of all the questions to ask. 

“Kup made them,” the mech said, simply. He held out a hand, almost as though this was just a normal meet and greet. “Gearshift. That’s Throttle.”

The mech who’d let them in gave a grim nod, moving to double check the door’s bar.

“Kup’s no scientist. You must be confusing him with Jhiaxus.” It was a lame bid, but Roadbuster had to try.

Gearshift shook his head. “Kup trained me. Back on Cybertron before the war. That was Kup.”

Roadbuster felt like a huge weight was pressing down onto his shoulders. He frowned behind his mask, letting his legs fold, lowering onto the ground. “Think you should start from the beginning.”

Throttle spoke, coming back from a small alcove in the back with ration pouches, offering them to Springer and Roadbuster first. It was a small gesture, but more than welcome, even though Roadbuster wasn’t in dire need of fuel yet. “It wasn’t much of a beginning,” Throttle said. “Seismic event. Not that uncommon around here, but this was a bad ‘un. Teams were sent, the usual, routine, stuff, mostly minor search/recovery ops, A few engineers, you know. to check the nearby buildings. Refugee work.” 

It was familiar and not, it all sounded so domestic and normal and about a few parsecs outside the Wrecker’s experience. But there was apparently another footplate waiting to drop.

Gearshift picked up the story. “They fell out of contact. Not that unusual, after an event, though. There are some EM pulses out here that fritz with comms. But after a while...people got worried. We sent another team. They found two mechs, one dead, one not.. And for a while, we thought he was, you know...”

“Crazy,” Throttle cut in. “Rambling about walking dead, cannibalism, a lake of light underground, just...you know, crazy stuff.”

“Wasn’t so crazy, I take it,” Springer said. 

Gearshift shook his head. :”If only we’d believe him sooner. Could have saved, well...a lot of lives.” 

“We did our best,” Throttle said. “Took him to a mnemosurgeon, figuring he’d just gotten, you know, bluescreened. But by the time we got him there, the guy we found him with, well...he got a bunch of others.” 

“No guard on him,” Gearshift said. “You know, because who guards the morgue?”

Wreckers, Roadbuster thought, but he gave a brusque nod. Not their fault, and even if it was, it looked like the place had suffered enough without a guilt trip from him. He had his own guilts to bear.

“All right,” Springer said. “But you haven’t gotten to how Kup’s involved in all this.”

“Getting to that,” Throttle said. “It spread, more deaths, and more, and none of them staying dead.” He shrugged, the kind that was trying to shift the weight of a burden on his conscience. “We tried everything. Only thing that kept them dead was a phosphorous burn.” 

Roadbuster grunted. That explained the white blazes he’d seen on atmospheric entry. 

“Which was...something. Till we started running low on phosphorus.” Gearbox said. “I was in Supply. We tried other mixes. Some of the experiments weren’t, uh, successful.” A wince, even though it was a shadow of memory. “So we thought, you know, we’d try to destroy the source, try to get a handle on it.” 

“We’re not military,” Throttle said. “I mean, not front line troops. Just a resupply station, a temporary brig. We weren’t ready.”

“Don’t think anyone could have been ready,” Gearbox cut in. “Least, for what they found.”

Throttle finished his own ration, crumpling the plastic pouch. “Anyway, getting late, but long story short, we know it’s Kup. Visual confirmation, level one. Only one we spotted who didn’t have a Gorlam RFID.” 

“RFID.”

Throttle tapped the side of his helm, where there was a small silver square. “Scan chip. We, well, we used to have a lot of high value stuff. To prevent any of it from growing legs, black market stuff, everyone chipped. Any structure they entered, it got logged.” 

“Only one triggered alarm that had no RFID,” Gearbox said. “And we almost had him.”

“He got away,” the other mech said. “But not before he bit one of the scout party. It was fraggin’ weird, you know, biting, but we didn’t think any of it.”

Split-optic gave a bitter laugh. “Our mistake. It was early on. We didn’t know. He turned, one night. Took out half the medibay.”

These were pieces Roadbuster didn’t want to put together. “So, that’s how you get that big a crew up there? Like a pyramid scheme?”

Gearbox nodded. “Any of them bite you, you’re done for.”

“And you want us to take out Kup.” One among what must be hundreds, if not thousands? 

Throttle spoke. “We learned something. You kill one a’ them, everyone he ‘made’ dies. Just...stops.” 

“You take out Kup, you take out all of them.” Springer’s voice was rough, pained. Roadbuster was glad he didn’t have to see the expression on his face.

[***]

“We don’t have to, Springer.” Roadbuster leaned in. They were given the night to recuperate, to plan, sitting together in another room in the cellar complex. “You can say no.”

Springer shook his head. “I can’t say no. Not to this.”

“It’s Kup!” Roadbuster said. “You can’t seriously think you’re gonna kill Kup.” He knew it was a stupid protest. That’s what they’d come here for, after all. But the story, all that death stuff, and the thing they’d seen....it had changed things. 

“I have to, Roadbuster.” Springer scrubbed his face. “If not me, who?” 

That punctured through an entire pile of objections Roadbuster had lined up, a question he couldn’t answer. Who else could? “I could.” 

“Kup--if there’s anything of himself in there--he’d hate this. He’d hate what he’s become. And the best honor I could give him is to end it for him.” Springer’s brows knotted. 

Roadbuster knew he’d lost. “Yeah. Yeah. All right.” Springer had that right, that first option. He slumped back against the wall, reaching idly for an energon ration. At least they had plenty of supplies--all the dead left plenty of food for the few living.

Springer sighed, almost deflating, looking for a moment exhausted and out of his depth. It was cruel, however you sliced it, to bring Springer back and throw him at this, first thing. It was cruel and brutal and hard, and Roadbuster felt the only fear he’d ever felt in his life, that this might actually break Spring

“Get some rest, Buster,” Springer said, that tone of his voice making it an order. “We’ll come up with a plan in the morning.”

Roadbuster grunted, squeezing the energon ration in his hands. He knew he was feeling childish, petty, but he couldn’t help it. He was no good at this stuff, no good of showing what he’d learned for himself all too well in Debris. He cared about Springer, as more than a leader. “Yeah.” 

Springer shifted his weight, settling on his back. He looked way too much like he had on Debris, lying for all those megacycles, like the dead. 

The green helm turned, suddenly, blue optics finding Roadbuster’s green visor in the darkness. “Hey.” A quirk of a smile in the dim light. “Thanks. You know. For caring.” 

Roadbuster started, mortified that he’d been so obvious, so transparent. He had no words, and the pressure that Springer could die tomorrow, or worse, become one of them, made it so urgent to say the right thing, the powerful thing, the one thing that could change everything. 

Roadbuster was good under fire, no mech calmer, less rattled. But he crumpled under the pressure of this, of what he felt was slipping through his huge hands. 

[***]

“We’ll show you the rest, now,” Throttle said, foot scraping on the floor of the alcove. Roadbuster was already awake--probably Springer was too, both of them lying their in that farce of being asleep so as not to wake the other, the strange manners of soldiers. 

Roadbuster rolled to his side, pushing up. “The rest. Can’t wait.”

“That’s the Wrecker spirit,” Springer said, sitting up himself, doing a quick check of his storage compartments. "I figure if there were any pleasant surprises, we wouldn't have needed the night's sleep to brace for them."

Throttle, gave the kind of noncommittal shrug that pretty much said yes. "Map." Throttle handed over a small datafile. "Blue places are most secure. Manned. Green's unmanned but regularly swept. Orange is at your own caution but structurally sound."

"Secure?" Not that Roadbuster was dubious or anything, but, you know, rear echelon types.

"We're all still alive since starting it," Throttle said. "If we get separated this could save your life. "

"Good enough for me," Springer said, ducking his head over his gun to reload. "So, where we heading?"

"Designated Lab in the map file."

Roadbuster called it up. Not far and they had a variety of routes for it. Course, that meant the enemy had a variety of attack vectors. No such thing as safe travel in a combat zone. He shook his head. Faced this slay a few hundred times before. Only, if this whole eater thing was true, it changed things. Cause just dying was bad enough : getting turned into one of those seemed worse.

Right. Well. The mission didn't change. Get there alive and kill any of the bastards who got in his way. Simple.

"We coming back here?" He rested his hand on the heavy case, ignoring Springer's headshake.

"We need to move fast, " Throttle said.

"I can always come back for it, " Springer said, making a whirly gesture over his head. "Haven't seen those things fly."

"Some can, " Throttle said. Roadbuster was seriously considering renaming him Moodkill. "You get modelocked in whatever you errs in when you got bit."

"Comforting trivia, " Springer interjected.

"How the frag they eat like that?"

"Yeah. That's a problem for 'em. Why you don't see too many of them around. They tend to starve and then justrust apart."

"This just gets better and better, " Springer cracked. "Log me in for my next vacation here."

No thanks, Roadbuster thought.

"Might as well kick this off," Roadbuster said. "Ain't gonna suck less for waiting."

"Wise mech," Springer grinned. "Spoken like a true Wrecker."

Roadbuster tipped his head, acknowledging the wisecrack, before turning back to Throttle. "Why we heading to this lab, anyway?"

"Someone there you should meet," Throttle said, but by the grim tone of his voice and the set of his jaw, Roadbuster was pretty sure this wouldn't be a great meeting.

[***]

The city was unearthly quiet, making every minor scrape of a footplate or shift of pneumatics seem to roar in the audio. Throttle led them out, Gearbox behind them, kneeling as they gathered in a knot in the pavement at the mouth of the alley. Roadbuster shot the rusted carcass a wary glance as Gearbox locked the cellar door, dragging a bit of torn wire fencing over it.

“Ready?” Throttle whispered. Roadbuster snorted. Wreckers were always ready. Just...not looking forward to it. 

They moved, on a signal, scuttling after Throttle’s zigzagging route, ducking into doorways or alleys, until only on plaza stood between them and the Lab. “Right,” Gearbox said, shuffling up to take point. “Throttle and I will cover. Something comes after us, you just make a break--I’ve commed ahead and they’re waiting for you.”

Springer frowned. “We can take care of ourselves.” It felt weird to have someone pull security on them, instead of the other way around, like an inversion in the natural order of things or something. Then again, Roadbuster thought, that pretty much seemed to describe this whole place.

“Problem is,” Throttle said, tugging a small laser scalpel from his storage. “You guys have guns, still. Guns mean noise, and noise means...”

“Yeah,” Roadbuster said, “we remember.” He didn’t like it, but he was just gonna add that to the record-breaking list of things he didn’t like about this mission.

“We’ll be right behind you,” Gearbox said. “Believe us, last thing we are is hero types.” He flashed something that might have been a grin, before turning to set up to face the plaza. 

Springer and he bolted, trying to find a way to run silently, feet pounding the paving plates of the square, toward the door that swung open, as if on some signal. 

“They’re in,” a voice said, a sound from the dark mass of shadow as Roadbuster’s optics struggled to adjust to the lowlight. There was a crackle of static, a squelch of confirmation, and a moment later, two shapes flung themselves into the same space, silhouetted for a moment against the dark, resolving quickly into Throttle and Gearbox.

The mech from the shadows tapped a code, and the doors began to swing closed, heavy, reinforced steel, sliding on silent, well oiled casters. 

“How’s he doing, Arcweld?”

The new medic, a chevron glinting in the lowlight, gave a strange twist of his shoulder that Roadbuster couldn’t read. “As usual, I guess. Woke him up when I got the ping you were coming.” 

“Right.” Throttle looked up at Springer. “You asked how we knew it was Kup, right?”

“Kup? You ‘ve got Kup?”

Gearbox shook his head, almost as if he regretted it. “We got something close, though. Mech named Blackbox.”

“Mnemosurgeon,” Arcweld said. “Or he used to be.” Arcweld tapped his chassis. “Used to have a medical facility here, you know, specializing in warshock.” He stepped to an inner door, an ‘airlock’ type that had been set up recently, the inner casters still stiff on the floor tracks. He beckoned the others to follow.

Springer grunted. “Heard Hyperion went to one of those.” He was talking to Roadbuster, connecting the idea to the huge mech. 

“You ain’t tryin to tell us that your mnemosurgeon tried to link with one of the eaters?” Roadbuster could see where this was going and it was, predictably, not good.

Arcweld gave a grim nod, mouthplates pushing together. “He has good days, and, well....not so good days.” 

The Lab, as it was, had that almost creepy cleanliness of all medical facilities, the light harsh toned, erasing corners and shadows as they walked down a hallway, Roadbuster hunching over under the low clearance. 

“And today?”

Arcweld shrugged. “Hard to tell just now, especially about how he might feel about visitors.” He paused by a door, hand hovering over a keypad. “Just a warning: don’t, uh, mention what he looks like.”

Springer and Roadbuster swapped glances, before the triple changer gave a ‘what are ya gonna do’ shrug, stepping through the doorway as it opened. Roadbuster followed, having to scrunch down under the lintel, his view of the slab in the middle of the room for a moment obscured by Springer’s frame.

Until he stood up and saw...Blackbox, apparently. And what that whole warning meant. Blackbox--what there was of him--lay on the repair slab, armor stripped down to a protoframe, His legs had been removed at the hip joints, one arm removed, the other truncated, the elbow joint inserted into the shoulder, giving him a tiny arm that flapped in a limited range of motion.

His body tipped on the slab toward the sounds of their entrance, hips twisting to lever the waist up, head lolling, and Roadbuster saw that his jaw had been removed, leaving his mouth just a diaphragmed hole, a series of wires leading from the throat to an external speech box.

The optics flared, narrowed, fixating on Springer’s face. “New.”

“Yeah, hey, Blackbox. These guys are here to help and they’ve got a few questions.”

“Questions.” The voice was flat, buzzed out by the speech box. “Poor fraggers.” He looked at Springer’s face again. “Get stranded here?”

Springer shook his head. “Thought we were the ones with the questions, pal.” 

“Ahhhhh,” Blackbox buzzed. “Military. High profile. Let me guess. You’re here to help.” An optic twitched, as though masking an invisible, impossible laugh. 

Bout time, Roadbuster thought, someone started asking actual questions. “That funny to you?”

The yellow optics found his, blinking a few times to focus. “There’s no help. Death always wins. It always wins. You can fight, but it will win in the end.”

“Beaten death before,” Springer said. Roadbuster knew it was just Wrecker bravado, for all the fact it was true. No one studied the stats of Wrecker casualties and loss like Springer. 

“Until now,” Blackbox said, giggling. “You’re going to die here.” 

Roadbuster felt his hand ball into a fist, and he had to fight the urge to lunge forward. No, Roadbuster. It’s just words. Just taunting. This Blackbox couldn’t even get up off the berth. He’s no threat. He’s no threat.

He kept saying it to himself, but something about the mnemosurgeon set him on edge.

Springer shook it off. “Would you like that?”

The laugh faded. “He knows you’re here, now, you know.”

“He.”

“Kup. He knows you’re here.” The truncated hand waved, feebly. “Through me. We’re all connected.”

“We. You trying to say you’re one of them?”

Blackbox twitched, his optics dimming for a klik. “I know them, they know me. We know each other.”

Arcweld murmured something, a warning, maybe. Blackbox’s upper lipplate twisted into a bottomless scowl, as Arcweld turned to them. “When he tried to read one of them, he got, well, partially contaminated.” 

“I feel them. I know them.” 

“You know them. So you know what they’re thinking?”

Another giggle. “There is no thinking. Just hunger. Hunger.”

“Hunger for what?”

The head lolled up to Roadbuster. “Energy. The essence of life.We are empty, bottomless for life.”

Right. Sounded like riddles were flying.

“And Kup. He’s empty, too?” Roadbuster could tell from the other’s hitched shoulders that he was hoping for a yes. It would be easier to think of killing Kup if you thought he was already dead. Like a mercy killing or something.

“Kup is the one from beyond.”

“Beyond.” 

“A rift. A universe of death, death in life, life in death. He brings it here, the gift. But we are too weak. We feed, to become strong enough to survive.” 

Roadbuster shifted his weight. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. It sounded like a bad holovid crossed with some kind of Syk hallucination. 

Springer caught his gaze, with a minute, agreeing nod. He’d had about enough, too. “Right. Good luck with that,” he said, stepping back to the door. 

“I’ll tell Kup that you said hello,” Blackbox said, top of his mouth stretched into a giddy grin.

[***]

“How the frag was that supposed to be helpful?” Roadbuster didn’t care if his voice carried through the walls. What should he care? Gonna hurt Blackbox’s feelings? 

“Blackbox is as close as you can get to talking to one of them. Except he can answer.”

“Yeah,” Roadbuster retorted. “Some great answers there, too.” He’d had some stonewally conversations himself, but nothing quite as gleeful. And more, he really didn’t like that Springer was so quiet.

“It means they have some control. They’re not random. And there’s a purpose to the feeding.”

Roadbuster folded his arms over his chassis. “Same purpose we all have: to not die.”

“I don’t think so,” Springer said, finally. “He made it sound like Kup wasn’t just some mindless thing. That could mean if they ate enough, you know, they could be like him.” 

“Theory,” Roadbuster said.

“I don’t think we have a more credible source than this mech,” Springer said. “Best we got, at least.” 

“He’s pretty reliable. Or he used to be, at least.”

“Yeah, real reliable, trying to jack in with an eater,” Throttle said.

“It wasn’t any eater,” Arcweld frowned. “It was his conjunx. Tell me you’d not at least try?”

Throttle subsided. Yeah, even Roacbuster had nothing to say to that. He’d never had a conjunx, but even he had to admit he’d probably try.

“He was trying to find a cure,” Arcweld continued. “He had a theory that you could get to the core, who they were, deep inside.”

“Sounds like something from a holovid.”

“Yeah, well, he used to have a romantic streak,” Arcweld said. It was one plus of being a Wrecker, Roadbuster decided, that they didn’t have to see the damage. Because it was clear that Arcweld knew--and liked--Blackbox from before. And that this whole thing was a different kind of pain than a bullet, but just as real.

“Did he get anywhere with it?”

“Don't know. Never had a chance to test it. His conjunx fell apart and after that, well....he fell apart, too.”

Gearbox said, “He says there's a chance if you catch someone just as their host dies. Something about the moment of transmission or transition or something. But who knows?”

“Yeah, well,” Springer cocked his head, mouth taking on his characteristic jaunty grin. “What’s the fun of playing if you actually know all the rules?”  
  
  


[***]

"Could really use Trailbreaker right about now," Roadbuster said. He crouched in a doorway--all right, filling up the entire doorway. The mech's forcefields would come in real handy, honestly.

"Yeah," Springer said. "Thought of that, but, well, I made him a promise, last time, when he went up against Kup." He shook his head. "Not something I want ot make him repeat." 

Roadbuster sighed. Figured. And Springer wasn't a mech who went back on his promises. Neither was Roadbuster, when it came down to it, though. 

"How's it looking out there, anyway?" 

"Quiet," Roadbuster said, scanning. "Not even one of them." A small blessing, at least for the moment. "So, what's the plan?" He hadn't asked before, just prepped equipment like he'd been asked. He hoped there was a plan. Because the thought of finding Kup just by wading through an army of the undead, well...now that he thought about it, that was probably a Wreckers plan. He was maybe hoping for something else. 

"Not so much of a plan as a theory," Springer said, and Roadbuster could hear the clicking and sliding of him loading a plasma rifle. "If he came from the Dead Universe, which is what it sounds like, then he'll probably be a little protective of the portal." 

"He or like ten thousand of his closest friends," Roadbuster said.

"Eh," Springer shrugged. "Kup never was a mech to send someone else in to do his dirty work." 

"Hell of a long shot."

"We're Wreckers. All about long shots."

It struck Roadbuster they might be the only Wreckers left. And that that could change, real soon. "Still don't like it."

"Yeah, well, you're going to love to hate the next part." A tap on his rib strut, Springer nudgng him aside. "I fly to the solar pool. And you?"

Roadbuster scowled behind his mask. "Lemme guess. I get to be back up/cleanup and if things get hairy, I pull everyone off as bait.”

"Yep."

Springer was right again. He hated this. Not for the whole 'be rolling bait' part as much as it left Springer without backup. That was like...all kinds of no to him. “So you think the whole 'if they feed enough they'll be just like him' is slag?” Yeah, sure, just the usual pre-combat chatter.

“I think it doesn't matter. What matters is they believe it.”

“Springer. If he's like that. If he's back like he was. He's....” He couldn't bring himself to say the word 'insane' But it hung, thick and dark in the air between them, like a droplet of energon.

“He's in pain” Springer finished, his mouth set, refusing any other answer. “And we need to end it.”

And that was that: he knew better than to argue.

Besides, they didn't have a choice. They had one long thin shot. He grunted, shouldering his weapon. No sense putting it off any longer. “Bringing some noise grenades, at least.”

"That's the spirit," Springer said, giving him a friendly thump on his shoulder, that may be, Roadbuster thought, the last one ever, "Time to go get ourselves covered in glory."

"Covered in something," Roadbuster muttered. "Probably gross." 

He just hoped he wouldn't be covering himself with regret.

[***]

"You sure about this?" 

"Frag no." Springer said, laughing. "I hate underground work. But Kup knows enough to choose the battlefield and, well, what choice do we have?"

True. Bailing? Not a chance. Roadbuster just wished there was a way that had slightly less 'suicide' flavoring.

"You'll do backup," Springer said, tapping the ramp's code. "You got the noise grenades?"

Roadbuster tapped his hips. "Plenty." Oldest distraction in the book, and Kup may have written the book himself, but the eaters hadn't read it. 

"Right. Just remember. We're here to save him."

Roadbuster stopped. "Save him?" That wasn't what he'd read in the mission brief. It had been about taking him down.

"Yeah, you heard Blackbox. There's a way to reverse it. They were working on it."

That wasn't the same as having one that worked, Roadbuster thought, but before he could say that, Springer had lowered the ramp, trotting down into the darkness of the subterranean caves. 

It was damp and eerie down here, driplets of water echoing in the closed space. It was warm, too, warmer than Roadbuster had expected, warm enough that beads of condensation built on his armor, on his optic lenses. "Kinda sucks down here," he whispered.

"When was the last time we had a mission in a vacation spot?"

"Well there was that hostage rescue in Hedonia, once."

"Right. The one that got Cybertronians banned."

"Hey, that was all Whirl." Okay, mostly Whirl. Whirl and the aura of bad influence he radiated. "But I kinda meant, why would Kup stay down here?"

A grunt. "Good question. Have a feeling we'll find out the answer before this is over." 

Fun. Roadbuster kept his gun at the ready, moving it in sweeping arcs around Springer as the triple changer took point, moving down a sloped surface that showed signs of wear, lots of traffic, both ways. Good sign, since they were looking for trouble. It apparently went this way. A lot.

They went deeper into the complex, flicking on bodylume to be able to see in the dark that seemed to envelope them. It smelled like rust down here, and sulfur, and a sort of acrid ionization. 

It was eerie, the way there was no resistance. They saw nothing, no one. "Someone must have seen us coming," Roadbuster said, as they rounded yet another corner, gun barrels sweeping, anxious. 

"Yeah," Springer said. "Makes me wonder how much Kup can control 'em."

They padded down the next corridor, unable to see where it branched next until they got there. And when they did...

"Yeah, I think he can," Roadbuster said. Because the corridor debouched into a chamber, rough and striated from the action of an ancient river, which still puddled on the floor. The room was lined with the eaters, hunched, half rusted, in various states of decay--some missing limbs, some with limbs stripped to protoform, some missing optics...all staring dully at the two where they stood.

Springer swore.

"Ditto," Roadbuster whispered. "Lemme guess: we're going down there." 

Springer moved one hand, a small gesture that was followed by a hundred pairs of optics in eerie, flawless synchrony. "Far end."

Oh, frag. Kup. The green mech sat, on the ground like some ascetic or guru, his armor bubbled with rust, head tilted, watching them, curious. And there was something in his optics, a light that the others lacked, that spoke of intelligence and maybe, maybe Kup.

“I don’t like this,” Roadbuster whispered, optics flicking over the crowd, because he just wanted to record the obvious, who seemed suddenly preternaturally still. It was unnatural, even for normal mechs, to not move at all: no hum of ventilation, no blinking optics, no shifting of weight. They looked, almost, deactivated, hollow, as though they’d been frozen staring at the newcomers and then just...faded.

“Think that may be the point,” Springer said. He stepped into the room, keeping his weapon away from Kup, swinging it almost anxiously from side to side. The place seem to breathe uneasiness like a vapor, thick and almost cloying, mingling with the rot and corrosion that emanated from the...things. Roadbuster couldn’t call them mechs, properly, at least not anymore. They were ruinous, almost empty, except he’d seen Empties back on Cybertron and at least they had moved.

He tried to console himself, looking at how light they were: smaller frames, mostly science types, only a few with onboard weapons. On the other hand, sheer numbers were against he and Springer, and he felt acutely the suddenly-limited-feeling amount of ammunition.

Kup sat forward, watching them. “I figured it was a matter of time,” he said. Or tried to. His voice was raspy, as though his vocalizer had been damaged, as though it hurt to talk. The voice startled Springer--Roadbuster could see the twitch in the other’s shoulders. It was uncanny, hearing Kup speak, hearing another voice--especially that voice, in the cavernous silence.

“Don’t sound happy to see me, Kup,” Springer said, his voice forcibly light. 

“Always happy to see old friends.” The voice was hard to read, at least for Roadbuster, but there seemed to be

something underneath the voice, like a turborat scurrying underground.

Springer stepped closer, his optics focused on Kup: Roadbuster took up the job of keeping his optics on the others. Just because they hadn’t moved didn’t mean they couldn’t. All Kup had to do was think them into moving. The air seemed thick with waiting, with potential energy just waiting to be tripped.

“So,” Springer said, keeping up the feigned lightness.“What’s going on here?” 

“That won’t help you, you realize,” Kup said. Not a reply in any way Roadbuster could see it. It was like they were having two different conversations, like Kup was half a step into a different dimension or something.

“What won’t?”

Kup jerked his grey, pitted chin. “That gun you got there.”

“Helped me plenty before,” Springer said. 

“Not against me,” Kup said, evenly.

“Who said I was going to use it on you? Kind of an assumption, don’t you think?”

“Wrecker.”

Roadbuster couldn’t refute that logic. Wreckers used guns for shooting things. Until they ran out of ammunition in which case they were handy heavy clubs. 

“Point,” Springer conceded. “Doesn’t mean I’d use it on you.”

Roadbuster wanted to protest: it was the whole point they were there. Or did Springer really have some plan, some notion, he could get Kup out of this? Roadbuster tried to replay the info they’d gotten from Blackbox and Gearshift and Arcweld, trying to figure out how Springer could have figured something out he’d missed, and being just a little hurt Springer hadn’t shared it with him. Which was hard, surrounded, wall-to-wall with the undead. So he had to settle for scuffling an unhappy footplate on the gritty ground, instead. 

“It wouldn’t work,” Kup said, conversationally, pushing to his feet. He moved...strangely, Roadbuster thought, like half his limbs were liquid, the other halfway to locked up. “You know why.” 

Roadbuster didn’t know why, but apparently Springer did--he saw the helm dip in a nod, stepping back as Kup eased down the rough slope to stand in front of Springer. 

Roadbuster’s engines gave a sound, half-warning, half just...upset. He didn’t like this. At all. And he was used to combat, used to overwhelming odds, used to risk of death. But there was something really off about this, really wrong, really…frightening. 

Well, why not? There was finally something he could say was worse than death. 

“So,” Springer said, the weapon still held in his hands, still between them, but off to the side. 

Maybe I should…, Roadbuster thought. I could take the shot. From this distance, a clean kill, probably just ripple the edge of Springer’s audial flare. He’d been through worse.

But he couldn’t, his hand almost locking in the triggerwell as Springer stepped into the shot. Almost like he knew. 

“Thought you were dead, Springer,” Kup said, his raspy voice barely carrying to Roadbuster’s audio. 

“Yeah,” Springer said. “Same.”

“You here to kill me?”

Kind of a blunt question, and Roadbuster could feel Springer struggling with it. “Here to end all this,” Springer said, finally, with a wave of his hand.

“Why would you want to, Springer? This is where we all end up, isn’t it?”

Springer gave a wry, unfunny snort. “If so, I’m cancelling my membership.”

“It’s a little...messy right now,” Kup said, the dim, tarnished-looking optics flicking over the

crowd. “But it will get better.” The head tilted, and Roadbuster could hear a screel of rust.

Springer looked away, at the crowd, and Roadbuster’s finger twitched on the trigger, itching to take the shot, but not daring to. Maybe Springer had a plan. Springer always had a plan, and if Roadbuster moved now, he’d frag it up. It was a tense moment, Springer’s guard down, gun down, not even looking at Kup and Roadbuster felt himself filling with a restless tension, unsure if it would congeal into regret. Springer’s head turned back.

“They don’t look ‘better’, Kup. Look kinda...dead.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, right?”

“Never figured you for a mech who spoke in cliches.”

Kup gave a chuckle, circling Springer, who half-turned, over his shoulder. “They’re cliches because there’s truth in them.”

“Maybe,” Springer said. “Point is, Kup. We’re here to help you.”

“Help me.” Kup seemed amused. “Like you helped me before.” A loaded tone in his voice, and Springer faltered, before holding something out. 

“Maybe we can discuss this like reasonable mechs,” Springer said.

Kup looked at the cy-gar Springer was holding out to him. “What’s to discuss?”

There was a sudden wave of motion through the room, the husks, the mechs who were dead, seeming to whisper, like a bad wind whistled through their empty frames. Roadbuster twitched, swinging his gun around, having too many targets.

“All the dead,” Springer said, the tension practically vibrating through his voice. “We should discuss the dead.”

Kup shook his head. “They’re just new to it. Like I was.” A grin on his rust-bubbled face, flakes of metal fluttering down off his chin. “Time was, those of us coming through just died. Till Britt showed us the way.”

“The way. You mean eating other mechs.”

A shrug. “Draining energy. It’s what we’ve always done, Springer, to survive. Kill or be killed. Just a little less metaphorical this time.”

“Yeah,” Springer said, and there was something in his voice that snapped Roadbuster to attention, his finger grazing the trigger of his gun, ready to go. Springer’d made some decision, come to some conclusion. And unless Roadbuster missed his guess, Springer didn’t like his decision at all. “Kill or be killed.”

Another whisper of air through the dead mechs, somehow rising to a sound like an unearthly moan, creaking and screeching as limbs moved, stiff and disused. Roadbuster swung, back to Springer, to cover his back, so he didn’t see what happened, only heard the punch of metal on metal, swinging back around to see them tumble to the ground, locked in a grapple, a flail of green limbs he couldn’t get a clear shot at.

Springer’s long legs flailed, catching momentum, flipping himself on top of Kup. “Doesn’t have to be like this, Kup.”

“Yeah, it does,” the other mech said, lunging upward, one hand hooking behind Springer’s helm. “Don’t fight it. It’s inevitable.”

“Frag inevitable,” Springer said, wedging a knee between their chassis, trying to force the other off him. 

The husks around Roadbuster moved again, arms twitching, one or two closest to him shambling forward toward him. He tore his optics away from the pair on the ground, dropping into a crouch and scuttling backward against a stalactite, so he missed the action on the ground, only faintly catching a grunt, a flail of limbs.

And then.

Oh no.

A cry, of shock and pain, Springer’s voice. 

Roadbuster roared, flicking the gun on full-auto, spraying semicircles of rounds at the crowd of mechs bustling around him, blasting off limbs, fingers, whatever they could reach, as he tore through them, batting the last few away with one huge hand, everything focused on pure instinct, on the pure desire, the need, to get to Springer.

The butt of his gun swung in an arc, off his shoulder, down, and crack into Kup’s face, making a sickening sort of scrutching sound, the green mech’s whole body arching back off where he’d hunched on top of Springer. He’d hit Kup. In the face. He’d hit Kup, probably the most revered Wrecker of all time. 

And he’d do it again if he had to. Kup must have seen it in his optics, the baleful glare over his facemask, as he poked at Springer with one toe, too occupied to scan for damage. “Springer,” he said.

“Yeah.” The voice was rough, vocalizers half depleted from the scream. “I’m good.”

The crowd pressed around them, making a tight circle. Roadbuster could feel them around him, like a rank breath of air. But they didn’t move in, didn’t try to tear them to pieces, they were just...waiting. Roadbuster risked a glance down, as Springer started moving, his optics catching a glint of pink. “Got bit. I’m good, though.”

Roadbuster was about to argue but, you know, not the time nor place. “See about that later. If we have a later.” His gaze jumped from the quiescent crowd to Kup, who was rising from his knees, wiping some clotty black ichor streaked with pink from his rust-bubbled jaw. 

Springer pushed to his feet, also looking at Kup, hand clutching at his own gun, pointing at the other’s chassis, center mass. “One reason why I shouldn’t now, Kup. One reason.”

“You’ll never get out of here alive,” Kup said, calmly, and then his mouth split into a sickish smile. “Hate for you to die in a cliche.”

“Don’t think I’m getting out of here alive no matter what,” Springer said, cocking his head, testing the broken piston in his neck with a wince.

“Sure. All you have to do is walk out.”

“Right.”

“Ever known me to lie, kid?”

The ‘kid’ was jarring: the most Kup-like thing Kup had said so far. 

Springer watching, warily, taking a step back, almost bumping into Roadbuster’s chassis. “Springer, we’re not just gonna--”

“We are,” Springer said, softly, pushing his free hand back against Roadbuster’s thigh. “Let’s just get out of here.”

He didn’t like it, one bit, but then again, he wasn’t really keen on staying here, either. He stepped back slowly, then another step, then another, slowly turning to cover Springer’s back. 

The husks moved, slowly, parting before them, closing in as they passed, a close wall of dead bodies, vacant optics, foul smell. 

Roadbuster’s foot struck the first step of the rise, then the next, and the crowd just gathered at the bottom, heads revolving up, dark optics following them flawlessly. And he looked out over the crowd, to see Kup, himself, simply watching them, arms folded across his chassis, the cy-gar that Springer must have dropped at some point clamped in his mouth.

[***]

“What the frag do you mean, there’s nothing you can do?” Roadbuster’s hands slammed onto the table, making the spanners, wrenches and other equipment jump. “You’re a fraggin’ medic. This is a fully stocked medibay. So,” he gesticulated, “medic him better.” 

Arcweld at least had the decency to look intimidated, clutching the datapad to his chassis, retreating a quick step. “L-look. It’s like we told you. They die. They come back.”

“It’s just a...I dunno, a cut or something. It ain’t enough to kill a mech like Springer.” If Overlord hadn’t been enough, that sure wasn’t. 

“It’s not a ‘cut’,” Arcweld said. “It’s a bite.”

He tried to peer over at the wound, which Arcweld had been cleaning, clear of clotted pink energon.

“Yeah. He bit me,” Springer said, pushing up on the medibay berth. “So. How long do I have?”

Arcweld gave that heavy sigh that only came before bad news. “A few days, at most.” His mouth twitched, pulling into an ugly shape. “Look. I’m sorry. But trust me, there’s nothing we can do.”

“Yeah, I know.” Springer nodded, reaching into his storage, pulling a small derringer, the kind Roabuster knew as the Last Resort. Tiny, one shot, close range. He held it out to Arcweld. “Look. When I’m dead, you make sure I stay dead.” 

“Springer!” Roadbuster sounded appalled. He was appalled. “You don’t mean…”

“I do. Look. I don’t want to turn into one of those things.” 

Yeah, Roadbuster got that, but something boiled up inside him, and he realized even as he spoke it was a kind of awful envy, that this stranger had been asked, and not Roadbuster. “What the frag were you even thinking? You had a fraggin’ gun. We were supposed to kill him.”

Springer shook his head. “You heard him. Gun wouldn’t have worked.”

“It’s worked pretty fraggin’ well so far!” You know, only a few thousand sorties. 

“It’s Kup. I forgot.”

Roadbuster balled his fists, impotent and angry. “Not making any sense, Springer.”

Springer stared at his hands for a moment. “When we rescued him from that planet--Trailbreaker did it--he was, you know, fragged up. That’s not him, that you see. It’s a Pretender technology. You can blow it to slag and he won’t die.”

That squinched down on Roadbuster’s frustration, like damping a fire, but it burst out in another. “So he’s impossible to kill.” 

“Nothing’s impossible to kill,” Springer said. “Just...not that way.”

“And you knew this. And we went in there anyway.” Damn bad time for Springer’s requisite Wrecker deathwish to manifest.

“We didn’t know what we were getting into,” Springer said. “I’d, well...I’d hoped.”

“Did you.” Roadbuster’s arms folded across his chassis, optics glowering over his mask.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me, Springer.”

The blue optics shot to Arcweld, and back. “Look. We don’t have time for this, Roadbuster.”

“We’re not going to have better time, if you believe what he’s saying.”

“Roadbuster.”

Roadbuster said nothing, standing to the fullest of his height, armor spread in plain stonewalling defiance.

“You think I wanted this to happen?” Springer said. “You think this is how I wanted to go out?”

“I don’t know!” Roadbuster yelled back, feeling the words rip themselves from his spark. He didn’t know. Maybe it was what Springer really wanted. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried so hard to bring him back on Debris. Maybe Whirl had...been right and the best thing to do would be to let Springer go. Maybe he’d held onto Springer, held onto hope, for his own selfishness. It was a tank-churning thought. 

“Hey, wait. Whoa.” Arcweld stepped between them, hands raised. “Is this really how you’d want to spend time that’s running out?” He looked between the two of them as they dropped their eyes, embarrassed. Arcweld had seen more than enough death, more than enough mechs coming to the same realization as Springer had.

Roadbuster heaved a low vent of air. “Question.” 

“Yeah?” Arcweld stepped back cautiously, as though testing the air between them.

“What happens if Kup dies, you know, before…” He couldn’t say it. For all the death he’d seen, he couldn’t say ‘Springer’ and ‘dies’.

“You’re not fraggin’ thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

“What?” Roadbuster rounded on Springer again. “You think I’m what? Just supposed to let you die, just sit quietly and, I dunno, hold your hand or something? Did enough of that on Debris, Springer. I’m done with being helpless.” He turned back to Arcweld. “So?”

“I think. I mean, there’s a chance. We know that whatever keeps them going dies with the immediate host.” 

Roadbuster nodded. “Right.” He moved to the door, jerking his head at Arcweld. “Got a favor to ask. Outside. And I gotta get some stuff together.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Roadbuster stopped, turning, glaring back from the doorway. He wasn’t sure if Kup could do that weird thing where he’d know everything that went on through Springer yet, or if Springer had to be...that way. Still, Wrecker SOP held to ‘always presume the worst’. He straightened, almost hoping Kup was listening. “Finishing the mission.”

[***]

Blackbox had become inured to boredom. Day after day, a sort of floating pain, death in life, life in death. He saw this room all the time, had every ceiling rivet counted, could time the lights on one of the monitoring boards. He knew the footsteps of every mech left on the base, took a certain feral pleasure in asking about someone when he hadn’t heard their gait in too long. 

Still, he cast himself after novelty, after anything that broke the boredom, with something like hunger, craving new things. Anything was better than the half-being he was, anything was better than the limbo he was in, no longer who he was, but with too much awareness, sentience, to be at peace. 

So when Arcweld left him after his afternoon check, he gave a flickering smirk that hid his interest when the

door didn’t close fully, the dirt-caked gears whining down, leaving a bright swath of light and hallway. He wriggled upward, on his limbless body, craning his head, at first just to see walls he didn’t have memorized, lights and shadows that were beautiful simply because they were new. But he could hear noises, soon, footsteps approaching, the squeaking wheel of a medical gurney.

And then a crash of noise he couldn’t figure out, metal on metal, wrenching and crunching, and a long sound like a ball or wheel rolling into silence. 

Then. A scream. 

Blackbox twitched upright, almost aroused, like a predator sensing blood. He hadn’t heard a scream like that in too long: pain and agony and despair in a vibrant, dark harmony. 

“He’s loose!” the voice managed, crackling on the end, and Blackbox could hear a slow, shuffling footstep, like--exactly like--someone newly turned, newly returned from death, trying to remember the movements of life. 

It had to be the triple-changer. He’d gathered enough, from Arcweld’s serious, distracted air, when he’d come by. Springer had turned. Kup would be glad: even Blackbox had felt that frisson of something like pleasure when Kup--their lord, their master, their ancient progenitor--had heard he was here: some old blood, bad blood between them. 

He chittered, strapped to his table, trying to rock up enough momentum to toss the berth on the floor, just to see more. Because he could feel it now, again, another thrum of exultation through the the thin connection: Kup was seeing this, through his eyes. He was the master’s vessel, and Kup was coming to collect his own.

And maybe, Blackbox thought, he would reward Blackbox, take him all the way across the line, over the boundary. 

He had hope, and he clung to that with greater ferocity than anyone had clung to mere life.

[***]

“Hope that was good enough,” Gearshift said. “Haven’t screamed like that in years.” 

“Good enough,” Roadbuster said. “I got a feeling he got the message.” He busied himself for a moment

affixing the last of the four explosive charges. “You got enough supplies?” 

“Five days, you said, right?” Arcweld, moved closer to the pile of crates still on a hand truck. 

“Yeah, five days should be enough.” They’d recommended the cold med locker as the best place to hide, a panic room kind of thing. If the place got overrun, the things would probably lose interest in the place after five days. “I’ll set separate det from outside, in case anyone tries any funny business to get in. This,” he paused, thick fingers somehow deft as he adjusted the detonator, “will blow the doors for you when you want to leave. Blows outward, but better to duck and cover anyway.” Civs weren’t so sharp with common combat sense sometimes. Still, Gearshift nodded steadily enough, taking the det box and moving it to one of the shelves. 

“Roadbuster, you don’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, I do. I mean. I can’t explain it, but I can’t think of anything else and I gotta do something.” It was a hasty plan but he’d pitched it fast and hard enough and they’d risen to it, Gearshift agreeing to that little act outside Blackbox’s holding room, Throttle throwing the gurney against the wall with almost too much satisfaction.

“He’s out, by the way,” Arcweld said.

“Yeah,” Roadbuster said, pushing that from his mind. Springer had been knocked out, another step of this ruse, put on artificial support. “I mean. Thanks. Really.”

Arcweld stepped forward, laying a hand on his arm, waiting till he got Roadbuster’s attention. “If this works, you have to tell him.”

Roadbuster gave a grim laugh. “Trust me, he’ll make me file paperwork. All the paperwork.”

Arcweld shook his head, mouth compressed “You know what I mean, Roadbuster.”

Roadbuster did, and he felt his spark flip in his chassis like it was reversing polarity. “...yeah. You guys ready?” He couldn’t even think about talking about it. Especially right now, when he was about to seal them up in the room, and put Springer’s medipod outside the door, right in the killzone of the blast. Throttle gave him a thumbs up, and they stepped back as he moved to the other side of the door, coding it closed, pulling his sidearm to blow the lock, just in case. He moved the white pod into position, taking a long moment to look through the view window at Springer’s face, almost serene, almost exactly like it had been in Debris, as long as he didn’t look down to the bubbled-metal gash on Springer’s shoulder that was obstinately refusing to heal. If he failed, the explosion would guarantee Springer would be dead, wouldn’t become one of them. The mechs inside didn’t need to know that detail, didn’t need the weight of knowing freeing themselves would kill someone else. 

He hoped it didn’t come to that. He hadn’t fought so hard on Debris to bring Springer into this. “Primus,” he whispered--and he wasn’t a mech who prayed, who put a lot of stock in that divine stuff, because no real god would smile much on what the Wreckers did, but he had to do something, anything, an attempt to reach out even to a divinity he didn’t quite believe in, just in case. Maybe Primus would lend a hand, for Springer’s sake, if not Roadbuster’s own. “Please may this work.”

[***]

Kup was coming. He didn’t need to hear Blackbox’s gibbering from down the hall to feel it. He was coming and he was bringing friends. Roadbuster had propped the door open: if this did work, the last thing he wanted was to make the medical base unable to be made safe. 

One thing was sure, one way or the other, things changed after today. 

He could hear them come, a lot of them this time, that uncanny, shambling stride as they approached, and the groan of the door as they pressed against it, mobbing through. Some fell as they approached, pushed too fast from behind, unable to navigate the stairs on rust-choked limbs. 

Roadbuster checked the box, tapping it with his foot. There, in easy range. Just where he wanted it. He held his combat pistol, center mass, waiting, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. It was this point he hated most--he always had--the tension before battle started. When shots were flying there was no time to think, just react, and things would happen, a combination of skill and luck and will, but this time, waiting for it to start, well...if he died, and went to the Pit, this would be his idea of eternal torment.

“Cute, kid,” Kup said, a silhouette, fearless in the doorway. Kup’s tarnished optics took in the pistol, the black bore of the muzzle aimed at his head, and shook his head, stepping in almost nonchalantly. “You don’t honestly think this is going to work.”

“I honestly don’t care,” Roadbuster said, flatly. All that mattered was he went down fighting, and hopefully took Kup with him. 

“He wants to come with me,” Kup said, stepping closer. 

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Roadbuster said, hefting his grip on the pistol, finger finding the trigger. “Thinking never was your strong suit, Roadbuster,” Kup said, pausing to pull the cygar out of storage, clamping it between his dentae.

“That supposed to hurt?” Because it did, even though Roadbuster knew it was true. He hadn’t been picked for the Wreckers based on his looks or IQ score. 

Kup shrugged, the gesture giving off a rusted complaint of metal. “I get what you’re doing, though. Tryin’ to be a hero, right? Throwing yourself in the way of danger, knowing you’re going to lose?” He circled to one side, watching as the pistol tracked his movements. “You know that doesn’t make you a hero, Roadbuster. Makes you a loyal, pathetic dog.”

“....yeah.” No denying. Why bother? It was true. 

A series of bustling scrapes and crowding: some of the creatures shuffled through the door, obeying some unseen signal from Kup, moving to range around Roadbuster. He had a feeling they weren’t just going to watch this time. He kept the gun on Kup, though. Kup was the key. If Arcweld and Throttle and the others were right, killing Kup would fix everything. 

Kup approached, the others circling around him, like a hive of insects around their queen. His optics, pitted and dirty and warped, fixed Roadbuster’s gaze, holding his optics until Kup’s chassis bumped against the muzzle of the gun. “Thought you were paying attention, before.”

Roadbuster grunted. He was the big dumb guy, right? Time to be big and dumb. And pray like hell it

worked.

“Tell you what,” Kup said. “For old time’s sake, I’ll let you get a free shot. What do you say?” He spread his arms wide, mouth twisting into something like a grin.

“Hubris, don’t you think?”

A chuckle. “Big word for you, huh?”

“Had some free time and a word-a-day calendar.” Roadbuster shrugged, never letting the gun leave Kup’s chassis. “At least one of them stuck.”

“So. Come on then. What do you say?”

Roadbuster felt something, a little worm of concern, something he couldn’t quite figure out. Hardly the first time he’d been over his head, but this time, this time, everything depended on him, everything mattered. “I say,” he said, rolling one shoulder at the things crowding close to him, shifting his weight from footplate to footplate, feeling his shin bump against the box he’d brought from their first hidey. “since it looks like I’m about to die, I’d at least like to pull the trigger once.”

“That’s the Wrecker spirit!” Kup grinned, stepping back, arms still spread.

The things around him crowded closer: Roadbuster could smell the dank corrosion that seemed to breathe from them, could feel the cold absence of their undead electromagnetic fields like cold, sucking holes near him. Waiting, but not for long.

He was sick of waiting, too, tension thrumming through his frame like a high tension line. “Wish it didn’t have to be like this,” he said. Probably the universe’s lamest last words, but that’s what happens when you’re Roadbuster.

“Yeah, I know,” Kup said, the words drowned out by the blast of the gun.

Which rippled the armor, and nothing more, as Roadbuster had expected, but it gave him time to kick up with his one foot, booting the box he’d brought from the hideyhole at Kup’s face.

The lid, loosened, clattered aside and Kup made one loud, startled sound before the mechanical sparkeater attached itself, sinking its silicate tendrils through gaps in the armor, aiming unerringly for the power lines.

Kup screamed, a howl of pain more than a mortal should bear, falling to his knees, trying to wrench the device off him. It was the last thing Roadbuster saw as the others fell upon him, a snarling mass, filled with confusion, desperation, and pain, determined to tear Roadbuster apart. He felt dentae sink into his armor, plates popping off under rust-clawed hands, he felt the weight of them all bearing him down.

But Kup was on his knees, and as far as last sights went, it was the best Roadbuster dared to hope for.

[Epilogue]

It took him three days to crawl back to the medibay storage room, though it really couldn’t be called crawling. Stumping along on ruined limbs, one or two pulls at a time before the alarms and pain overwhelmed him and he sank into a swamp of agony that drained the world in front of him. He felt like he was on fire, every bit of him, even phantom flames on fantom things he no longer had: crest, leg, fingers. It took everything he had, but there was no better way to spend it than making his way back, struggling to hook what was left of an elbow, still bearing the scars of mauling from the mouths of a half-dozen of the creatures, around the bottom

of the gurney Springer’s body was on.

And then another day, slow, and starving, and slipping through the trail of his own fluids: energon, coolant, hydraulic fluid, to pull Springer out of the blast radius of the door. He’d wedged himself between the gurney and the doorway, and with one last check of his chrono--a half day to spare--he finally let himself collapse, sink down into the pain and not bother to try to come up.

[***]

“Fragging idiot.”

Roadbuster groaned in response. He wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say, just...noise. Because he knew

that voice and it was the best sound in the world to wake up to.

He waited, impatient, deciding he hated waiting more than anything in the world, as his systems cycled online after audio: sight slowly pixelating in to see the green helm looking down at him. “Yeah,” he said, his voice raw and creaky, “You kinda were.”

“Joke all you want,” Springer said. “You owe me one hell of a report.”

“It worked.”

“Yeah, though Throttle and the others are really not so grateful about the cleanup job they have ahead of them, right?” Springer lifted his gaze from Roadbuster’s face, grinning at someone on the other side of the room, to a laughing response.

“I’d offer to help,” Roadbuster said, weakly, lifting an arm.

“Yeah, but...kind of short a few parts. We’ll get ‘em at resupply. Just wanted you to wake up before we boosted off this rock.”

“Kup?”

“That thing--and I can’t believe I’m saying this--actually worked. Drained him right down to zero. And the medics did the rest. Not sure I’m keen on touching that thing, though.” He looked over at the box, with a big dent on its side, and streaks of pink energon crusted down one side. 

Roadbuster gave a sighing nod, already exhausted from the effort of being awake, of fighting the sensor block they’d given him. “Figured as much since, you know, we’re not dead.”

Springer gave a laugh, and it seemed almost nervous, suddenly. And whoever it was on the other side of the berth left, footsteps moving to the door, and they were alone. Arcweld, Roadbuster figured, and he remembered the other’s words to him before. “Roadbuster.”

“Springer.” The words overlapped, sounds garbling over each other.

Another nervous moment, both of them coughing up laughs. “You first,” Roadbuster said.

“Yeah. Uh.” Springer looked a little nervous, almost like he’d lost his nerve. “Just that, I mean, what you said before. About me wanting to die.”

Oh. That. Yeah, Roadbuster wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. “Don’t mention it.”

“Kind of have to. Because maybe you were right, and I didn’t want to, you know, just to start all that up again, throw ourselves into more and more battles, just to order, and watch, mechs, good mechs, tough mechs, die. I don’t...I don’t know if I can do that anymore.”

Roadbuster reached out a limb--a bare, just functional replacement, way too small for him, way too underpowered. But it was something, and it gripped Springer’s hand surely enough. “We don’t have to.” He pushed the pronoun out, ‘we’, us, both of us, with a spark-ful hope. He’d been ready to die himself--what was the point without Springer, after all? 

The fingers squeezed in his replacement ones, firm and warm and full of life against the bare titanium of the replacement frame. “You’re right. We don’t have to.” Kup was dead, the war was so far away from them and they were both just...sick of killing. Springer laughed. “Just not sure what else we can do.”

Roadbuster felt his optics twitch, the corner shutter twitching in a smile. “Yeah, well, be fun to find out.”


End file.
